Mine flew into my cupped young hands.

Image: Joan Miró‘s Women and Bird in the Moonlight


This one nests once:
Basho’s warbled seasonal tunes.
Dickinson’s kindly stopped for her
On his flight through eternity.
Yeats’ soared backward into the green past
And yielded to the one in gold-enameling.
Tagore’s bows to the Lover Divine, touching
The edge of her wing.

Mine flew into my cupped young hands.
They have caged his little soul my life long.
He has shivered on my shoulders.
Perched in my brain, brightening my ear,
Never suffering me to sing dark sins,
He has never risked flying far away.
It’s not his fault I sometimes confound
The chaff with the wheat.

~ ~ ~

This poem is slated to appear in my forthcoming collection tentatively titled “Light Sweeping.”  

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